Jack Daniels and Chloe

Jack Daniels and Chloe
And there she sat. And I watched her as her brown eyes scanned the bar. Her eyes briefly focused on me (I instantly looked away) before her eyes returned to a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting a few feet in front of her behind the bar. Her brunette hair fell just past her shoulders, and an elastic band, like one of those live strong Lance Armstrong wristbands, hung from one of her wrists.
“Don’t just stare at her, man. Buy the girl a damn shot—or at least get up off that stool and onto those short little legs of yours and talk to her,” said Ethan Blue, before taking a short sip from his glass of Yuengling. “You don’t want to be the guy who just stares.” Ethan paused briefly, and looked to one side. “Well, maybe you do want to be the creepy guy. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere, though.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for my glass. “Why don’t you go talk to her, Mr. Fuckin’ full of advice?”
“Me? I’m having a rather deep conversation with ole Yuengling here,” replied Ethan, laughing. “And I can’t interrupt the discussion now, not at this stage.”
He raised his hand and the balding bartender nodded his head and poured him another round. “She’s all yours, man” he said. And he reached for his drink.
“You want a shot—or something,” I asked. “I saw you eyeing that bottle of Jack.”
“You’re the guy, the guy who was staring at me from across the bar, aren’t you?” She turned to look at me and smiled but it looked as if it was a half in terror and a half in shock smile.
I tried to modulate my voice as my mouth opened again, but it wavered and I tried to hide my embarrassment but I felt my face flush. “Yeah,” I said. “I saw you, and, you know, I was thinkin’ you’d like a gentleman to come over and buy you a shot—a shot of Jack.”
I could see myself sinking. I could feel Ethan peering over his glass, holding back his laughter.
“You’re a gentleman, uh? Well, ha, I don’t see any here.”
“No?” I asked. “I could ask around, maybe we’ll get lucky. The man in the black leather chaps fumbling through the jukebox looks like a fine winner.”
“Haha, it’s not worth the trouble,” she said.
The first chords of the Ramone’s cover of “I don’t Want to Grow Up” blared out from the Jukebox. I looked over and saw Ethan selecting music. It looked like he was well into his sixth beer.
“How about that shot? At least let me buy you that,” I said. “It’s the only line I have and we can try and forget about the lack of gentleman together.”
“You’re really hard up for this shot, aren’t you? Well, why should we stop at one? Let’s get like 6 shots right now, and we’ll split ‘em between the two of us. And then order another six in a hazy fog of booze.”
“Really?” I asked. I should have noticed the sarcasm but I was too excited and surprised.
“No, you can buy me a drink though. But first, tell me your name. And maybe, maybe, I’ll tell you mine.”
“My name’s Adrian Links,” I said, attempting to express as much confidence as was possible in my voice.
“Adrian, you kind of—kind of, just barely, make me laugh,” she said as a hint of redness appeared on her tanned cheeks. She held a hand up and put her thumb and index finger an inch apart to show how little I made her laugh. “The name’s Chloe Kim.”
“No,” I could hear Ethan say as I approached. “It was the friction between Joey and Johnny Ramone that created that punk energy, that fuckin’ rebellious spirit. Their political and philosophical differences, it was such a gap, and the gap just kept growing. Oh man, it was something.”
He said man a lot I thought as I made eye contact with him between two of his fellow musical critics. I never noticed it until now.
“Adrian,” Ethan said. What happened, man?” He flung his glass to his right and a few healthy drops of beer landed on the sleeve of a bar patron who looked up with a bemused look.
I gave him a slight grin and he pushed pass two guys and grabbed me around my shoulders.
“You see?” He said, accidentally pouring the rest of his beer on the front of my shirt. “Mr. Fuckin’ full of advice was right.”
I nodded and told him she gave me her number. “Her name’s Chloe.
“What?” Ethan asked. “Chloe? Sounds like a porn name. Hey, it doesn’t matter. If anyone can deal with the stress of talking to a girl in the porn industry—it’s this guy. Buy me another Yuengling to celebrate, will you? I feel the need to strike up another conversation with it after all of this.”
Ethan passed out my couch. On the way home he stuck his head out of the passenger window and yelled, “Chloe and the purple ice cream shooter: the greatest porn of the past ten years,” at every passing car. I fell asleep with the image of Chloe, and her tanned skin, brown eyes, and brunette hair in my mind. Happiness, I thought as I closed my eyes, has at last been caught and contained in me as if it was a fire fly I finally captured in a jar on the edge of a forest.
Chloe is stumbling down the hallway. I cringe as I hear her hit the wall of the hallway—she hits the wall hard. It sounds like two trees smashing against each other during a monsoon on the pacific coast.
“Why, why does, you know, Tom Cruise play the same fuckin’ person in every goddamn movie?” Chloe asks in between sudden laughs. She’s returned with a fresh glass of whiskey and ginger ale. “Seriously, he’s this--,” Chloe’s voice cuts off, and her eyes lose their playfulness; she looks behind her as if a ghost is stalking her; and she finishes off her drink and places it on the carpet.
I follow her movements; her crease above her exposed belly button turns white as she bends to look at me. I smile; it’s easier at this point.
“Share a drink with me, will you?” She asks. It’s a question, judging by her voice frail voice, one doesn’t ignore or challenge. I pour myself a glass, a glass of water; she won’t be able to tell the difference in her state.
It’s three in the morning and the jar is open and I’m on the edge of the forest. I hear her throwing up in the bathroom. It goes on for thirty minutes.
“Adrian, can you get me a glass of water—and a bag of ice,” says Chloe. “I really hit the wall last night--or maybe the wall was hitting me.” She laughs but her laughter is muffled by her pillow and sounds like a sick trumpet with a mute attached to it.
She’s face down on the bed but her hand is grabbing at the inside of my elbow. Her skin has a pronounced paleness to it. There are only small signs of the rich, tan skin she once had. I want to tell her to stop but it does nothing. Do I join or continue to fight? Ethan will be over for breakfast. And maybe the jar isn’t open. Maybe I’m trapped in it.
“Just think,” he says. “If she was actually in porn, man, you wouldn’t be in the middle of this total, damn, shit storm. There’s no way you would have dated her.” He puts salt on his scrambled eggs and tries to laugh.

I wasn't sure where it was going to lead at the beginning, but it got better. Nice work.

Thanks for the feedback.

No problem. I like it. Hopefully others will give you feedback too.